


Dizzy

by Diminua



Series: Different Worlds, Same Planet. [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, M/M, Sexual Content, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diminua/pseuds/Diminua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two days since the letter, and Mycroft has read and reread it..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Two days later the letter is still hidden in the book where Mycroft first hid it – a political memoir there is little to no danger of Sherlock wanting to investigate – folded slightly unevenly as it was in the envelope, not yet showing wear from the multiple times that Mycroft has read and reread it.

It still has a power over his senses out of all proportion to the words.

Oddly, Mycroft doesn’t think being loved would be this confusing. He’s familiar with the knowledge that he’s lovable. It’s the idea he might be lusted over that’s new and wonderful and infinitely distracting. He finds himself seriously considering the purchase of a silk dressing gown, purely because Greg apparently thinks of him as the sort of person who might wear such a thing.

He also finds himself without the faintest idea what to write back.

Possibly ‘You said to ask if I wanted more..’. But surely that would be terribly greedy. Gluttonous, even.

Something has changed in the air of Italy, in himself. He finds himself lingering in the shower, stroking soap over his skin, almost but not quite able to see what it is Lestrade sees in the pale ivory, the flush of pink. His bed is similarly altered, crisp sheets that no longer make him think of sleep. The heat pressing him into the mattress has ceased to be uncomfortable. His thoughts linger instead on how Lestrade would adore it, muscles stretched and skin warm under Mycroft’s fingers; dry – warm weather is not enough to make Greg sweat, although exertion leaves a film of salt laden moisture, tart on Mycroft’s tongue..

The sense memory is precise, all-encompassing, but the fantasy blurs in the places he has yet to experience, and his fingers only skim, cautious, curious, where Greg has said he wants to delve. It’s not enough to help Mycroft understand.

Neither greed not gluttony, he decides afterwards, his usual precision for words asserting itself. Possibly some form of hedonism. He’d need access to a larger library to decide which school.

He has no idea what to write, so he calls instead, using the phone kiosk in reception. It will be billed to the room, but at least there is a degree of privacy.

‘Thank you for the letter.’ He says, ridiculously, and wonders why Greg doesn’t laugh.

‘It wasn’t too much then?’ Greg coils his thumb deliberately in the phone cord, burying it. Uncoils it again. ‘I wondered.’

‘No, it wasn’t too much.’ Mycroft didn’t think he’d rung up to make promises, but he thinks maybe he has without meaning to.

It’s not like him to not know his own intentions. It’s unnerving.

Greg flounders for something to say. He worked hard on that letter once he’d made up his mind to really write it. Still he wasn’t sure about it. Actions only ever leave the odd bruise, quickly faded. It’s words that come back and bite you on the bum.

Mycroft likes words though, and he wasn’t writing letters for himself.

And it’s easier than phone calls, which can’t be balled up and thrown in the general direction of the fireplace when they go wrong.

This one has too much silence in it. Greg breaks it by supposing he ought to experiment again on himself.

‘You do know I imagine that when you talk about it?’ Mycroft says quietly. _Greg on his back with his hips angled up off the bed, breathing heavily.._ Mycroft realises he’s closed his eyes, the better to visualise, and snaps them open again as Greg speaks.

‘Yeah. Problem?’

‘I don’t object if you don’t.’ He distracts himself with etymology. Hedonikos meaning pleasure. Voyeur of course from the French. Not quite the right word though, because he wants Greg to be aware of him too.

The thought makes the phone booth feel even more airless than it actually is. Extraordinarily cramped too, built in the 1930s for 1930s people, with wooden doors and tinted glass and green baize on the walls.

‘Like being shut in a box of chess pieces.’ He complains.

At last Greg laughs, and after that it’s easier.


	2. Dizzy

Mycroft hopes for a day in London on the way home, but Mummy doesn’t want to delay the long journey back to what people are fond of calling Thomas Hardy’s Dorset, which means simply miles from anywhere. There was an important monastery on the site of the house once, before Henry VIII dissolved it and handed the estate to the Ardwell’s, (who eventually lost it to a more distant relative called Holmes through the entail of property to the male line) but there's been little of interest since.

Sherlock moons about in the ruins with his violin sometimes, pretending to be ghosts or minstrels or the Pogues, and if he climbs to the top of the only remaining staircase he can catch a glimpse of blue sea between the hills. Much the same view that can be seen far more safely from his bedroom in fact, but Sherlock does it anyway.

Father is fond of saying that if they were a little nearer the coast and the roads were better they’d be heaving with tourists looking for old world charm – the small village is all local stone (even the bus shelter) and the pub is the only other roof that isn’t thatch, and tourists adore that sort of thing. 

Instead it’s still a place where the curtains twitch in turn as they drive past each house, neighbours alerted to their presence by the sweep of the headlights and the purr of the engine. 

‘I don’t know why they have to look.’ Sherlock says. ‘They must know it’s us. No-one else has a car that sounds like ours.’ 

‘Not everyone is as clever as you Sherlock.’ Mummy explains. ‘But please don’t kick the back of the seat.’ 

Sherlock unstretches his legs and lets them drop. ‘I’m just a bit restless.’ He says. 

So is Mycroft. He’s already plotting his escape. Give it two days and then it should be easy enough to get himself dropped at Moreton station. _Only_ 3 hours into town and then the tube. 

He wonders if he could stop more than one night, assuming Greg wants him to. It’s a long journey to hurry back and forth and he has time. Sherlock starts prep in just 4 days but it’s weeks to the start of Trinity’s Michaelmas term. He doesn’t know how to ask though, and every time he calls Greg he doesn’t seem to be there anyway. A horrible cold feeling starts to sink into his bones, tinged with humiliation when he realises his parents are noticing each time he dials out, and aware that his call is never returned. 

At least Sherlock has lost interest in anything Mycroft might be up to. He’s much more interested in racing up and down the long gallery on his new bicycle (Mummy will not let him cycle outside in the rain) and checking his _Melanophryniscus stelzneri_ have been properly looked after in his absence. 

Greg is fed up. It never seems to stop raining. The back door is swollen and stuck shut with damp, and Alan has had an argument with the council because he says they'd be trapped if the place caught fire. Properly dangerous with a baby in the house.

Mycroft coaxed another letter out of him but then went quiet. Not one call in the last week. Greg doesn't know if he went too far or what. Probably he's just busy, packing and moving his stuff to Cambridge, getting his timetable and textbooks. It’s understandable, even if Greg.. No it is understandable, and Greg needs to get over himself. 

Life goes on. Work, eat, drink, sleep. Mostly work. He’s got to take two bikes to Finchley tonight. There’s a new Pizza King opening up that way and the delivery bikes – and delivery is most of the trade now – have not turned up yet. So he’s riding a couple over one by one, taking the train back. 

Which is why he’s listening to the radio, hoping to catch a traffic report, and ends up instead with Morrissey explaining how _We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful._

‘Speak for yourself mate.’ Lestrade mutters, turning the dial with the practised movement that locates Capital. Where Sinead O’Connor is telling the world that _Success Has Made a Failure of Our Home._

‘Oh for...’ 

Greg puts a tape on instead. He’ll worry about the traffic when he hits it.


	3. Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been 10 days since they spoke...

Life is generally a bit crap, and it’s best to build in your own pleasures and not rely on the other bugger to do it. Greg has known this practically forever – he was born bloody knowing it – but he’s still disappointed. It’s been 10 days. 

Somewhere in the pile of old envelopes and choc bar wrappers and other rubbish shoved into the top drawer of his chest of drawers he has Mycroft’s home number. He could give him a call, have a go at him maybe, but it’s not worth it. 

He doesn’t know why he’s so gloomy about the whole thing. It’s only what he expected. 

Sharing the house with a couple who were barely civil to one another didn’t help. She’s gone now though, picked up by a middle aged woman with a metro, a grim expression, and hair that had the guts bleached out of it. Her mother, probably. Her bloke, Eric, wasn’t around to see her and baby off, but he doesn’t seem surprised to find her gone, and Greg knows better than to ask any questions. 

Greg just carries on avoiding everyone as much as possible, eating his beans in his paraffin scented bedroom where it’s a little warmer. 

The rain has settled into the bricks of the house, making the walls cold and a bit slimy to the touch, and because the council sent someone round to get the back door open the draught comes through where it was planed down and the catch isn’t as good as it was. It rattles on windy nights, and the chimney howls, and Greg lies awake and thinks that if he hadn’t had his whole life to get used to putting up with people he reckons he’d have decked someone by now. 

He didn’t realise anyone was actually intercepting his post though. Not until Eric runs into him in the hall and actually hands him a letter he’s apparently had for days. 

‘Oh I forgot. This came for you.’ 

‘Ta.’ Greg says, although he’s about ready to kick him actually. Why the hell has the bloke been walking around with it instead of giving it to him? ‘Just shove it under my door next time, yeah?’ He says mildly.

It’s not anything important. Just an invite to another social work do. Diwali and Guy Fawkes all in one. Fireworks and marzipan sweets, he supposes. Bit odd, because shouldn’t they have stopped asking him to this stuff now he’s 18? 

It’s only virtue is that it makes him wonder if he’s not getting his calls either.

 

Mr Cartwright, who looks after the house when the family are away and helps with managing the household when they’re not, finds Mycroft in the library exactly where he expected to find him, piles of books set out on the desk in front of him like a barricade. 

‘There is a Gregory Lestrade on the telephone for you.’ He says. 

He doesn’t say ‘sir’. This is not the 1940s.

Nor does he pretend not to notice that Mycroft’s reaction is odd. He first looks eager, and then reluctant, standing dithering by the desk as if he’s tempted to ask Cartwright to tell Lestrade to bog off. 

‘If it’s not a good time..’ Cartwright lets the sentence trail off. 

‘No, I’ll go.’ Mycroft sets his shoulders. If he’s about to be given the push he might as well know. At least Greg has had the decency to finally call him back and do it in person. 

He waits until Cartwright has gone back into the kitchen before he picks up the receiver.

‘Gregory?’

‘Mycroft.’ Greg says cautiously. He’s still not sure whether this is a good idea. ‘Have you been ringing me?’ He asks. Best to establish that first.

‘Yes, several times.’ Mycroft sounds angry, and Greg feels his own irritation rise in response despite the relief of knowing Mycroft hasn’t just stopped calling. ‘Why? Don’t tell me you haven’t been getting my messages.’ 

‘No I haven’t. Bloody Eric. I reckon his missus is right. He built that house wrong to start with.’

For a moment Mycroft is confused, but only a moment.

‘Ah, the couple with the roof that fell in. But surely he didn’t build it himself?’ 

‘No but he hired the blokes on the cheap didn’t he? No wonder she buggered off back to her Mum’s. You should’ve heard them..’ He pulls himself up. ‘Anyway, dull subject. How are you?’

‘Sent slightly reeling by how acidic you sound.’ Mycroft says crisply. ‘Not to mention baffled as to why you still seem incapable of calling me unless I ring you first.’

‘Well I got tired of hearing them sniping at each other. And the baby grizzling all the time. Be glad you missed it.’ He doesn’t answer the second part. Mycroft is clearly spoiling for a row. ‘Are you coming up to town soon?’

‘No.’ Mycroft’s pride makes the decision for him. He will not come running whenever Gregory says. 

 

‘Mycroft..’ 

Mycroft drops the receiver neatly into its cradle, disconnecting the call. If he talks to Greg any longer he will start shouting, possibly sobbing, with fury. His heart is pounding and he is angry and disappointed - and stupid, obviously, because he doesn’t even know if Greg is going to phone back. 

He tells himself he’ll sit here on the stairs for just a minute, and then he’ll go back to studying. 

The second hand on his watch sweeps round inexorably, and the phone doesn’t ring, and it hurts. It really, really hurts.

When the phone does finally ring - more than a minute later, but less than five - he actually jumps. 

He jumps again as Cartwright’s head pops out of the pantry door, only retreating when Mycroft glares at him. Still, he was bound to find out. You can’t keep anything from the staff. 

He takes a deep breath before answering the call, and promises himself he will keep his voice steady and, as far as possible, neutral. 

‘Hello?’

‘I thought you’d given up on me.’ Greg launches in without preamble, because it’s just occurred to him now how pathetic it makes him sound, and he wants to get it over with. ‘And then I couldn’t find your number because my room is basically a tip. I’m living in my bed because of the cold, so nothing ever gets tidied and..’ He gives up. ‘That’s it, mostly. And did you just hang up on me?’

‘Yes. I was angry.’ Mycroft is not going to admit he was testing whether Greg cared enough to call him back. ‘And childish.’ He can admit that much. 

‘Come up to town?’ Greg’s voice is as small as Mycroft’s is. The phone line feels like the thinnest possible thread connecting them. He won’t feel comfortable until he’s seen him. Held him.

‘How can I resist when you make your bedroom sound so very appealing?’ Mycroft says drily. He feels better for the tears and the burst of temper. More himself. ‘And of course I’m just dying to meet Eric.’ 

‘Yeah, right. Tomorrow?’ Greg says hopefully. ‘I can meet you uptown and go for a drink if you like. I have clocked up so much overtime you would not believe. We could go up Soho and hit a gay bar. I’ve always wanted to do that.’ 

'Aren't those the sort of places that put 'over 21s only' on the door?

‘We could pass for 21. I bet they don’t care anyway. It’s not as if we’re going to try and pick anyone up.’

‘Do they do cocktails?’ When he was much younger, just starting to board, Mycroft used to sometimes stay with an aunt who drank cocktails before dinner in the old fashioned way. Aperitifs of vermouth and gin and bitters with twists of orange peel draped elegantly over the side of the glass. She’d made him Pina colada so he could join her, and at age eleven the combination of kitsch and sophistication, and the idea that this was something just for him that he didn't have to share with all the other boys at school or his little brother, had felt like enchantment. 

‘I expect so.’ The word ‘cocktail’ conjures up nothing but the movie to Greg, and it’s really not his thing, but he’d compromise on a lot more than that for Mycroft’s company. ‘We’ll find one that does.’

‘Tomorrow then.’ Mycroft says happily. ‘I should be at Waterloo by 2.20.’


	4. Dizzy

Greg is bang on time at Waterloo but Mycroft still somehow gets there first, just one solitary figure in a long coat, standing still and straight under the hanging clock with all the busy crowd swirling around him. Like a spy in an old film. _Get Carter_ , or something. Greg tries to take a moment to appreciate the effect before walking over, but Mycroft is too good, picking him out effortlessly in the mirrored reflection of a shop front and turning straight round.

‘There you are.’ He says. Greg sticks his tongue out at him.

‘I’m not even late.’

‘No, I was lucky with the connection from Dorchester.’

Their eyes meet, catch, wanting to touch but unfortunately aware that they’re in public and people can be funny.

Mycroft looks away first, rummaging in a pocket. ‘I got you this, by the way.’

 _This_ is a small leather book. Pocket sized, black; wafer thin pages tinted and lined in blue, edged with silver gilt. Greg flicks through, finds the one entry under ‘H’ in Mycroft’s small, neat writing.

‘It’s an address book.’ Mycroft says obviously. ‘In fact it’s an address book with my address and telephone number already written in. I've decided you need organising.’

‘’scuse me. I budget don’t I?’ Greg runs his fingers over the leather, the embossed inscription. ‘This looks posh.’

‘You can buy me a drink.’

‘Right, cocktails.’ Greg slips the address book in his pocket and tugs on Mycroft's sleeve to turn him towards the tube. He wants to get somewhere they can kiss without having people comment. Piccadilly Circus for Soho should do it.

It is, in fact, a remarkably uneventful evening. Despite the pitcher Mycroft decides they have to have, with a whole sliced lime lurking at the bottom and green and yellow paper umbrellas perched and wobbling around the sides, and the tequila Greg follows it with, just because it seems to be a night for clichés.

This must have been a standard pub once, but it’s been refitted, Donna Summer on the multiple screens, barely competing with the lyricless music that thrums from the dance floor, the flashing of strobes and spotlights. There is, apparently, an over 21 policy (presumably just to keep the 15 year olds out. No-one says a word to either of them), some kind of rule that they give out tiny bowls of black and green olives with every order, and a rather beautiful older man at the bar who obviously didn’t get the memo about the new romantic thing being over.

They have to admit he looks good in eye liner though.

The dance floor is small and Greg coaxes Mycroft onto it to make an idiot of himself, only stopping giggling when Mycroft backs him against one of the pillars holding the first floor up – the place is built like a coaching inn, but surely can’t have been, not in Soho - and kisses him stupid.

It’s like a flare going off up his spine, the solidity of the beam to his back and the heat of Mycroft pressed to his front from shoulder to thigh, legs slotting between his own, arms holding him in, surprisingly strong, and the greediness of the kisses, sour and salt from their daft tequila experiment. Greg clutches at the fine weave of Mycroft’s jumper, arches a little into him, enjoying the friction of denim, and wonders if they really have to drag themselves all the way home, or whether they could just let this escalate right here and accept that it might get them thrown out.

More shy, or less drunk, Mycroft pulls away before they go too far, still licking his lips.

‘I think it’s probably time to go.’

Greg nods. No-one’s really looking at them, but he somehow gets the sense they have been, and the fact they aren’t still is more good manners than lack of interest.

From here the bus is easiest. They walk down to the seat at the back of the top deck where they can snatch kisses, tipsily confident that the family of tourists at the front are too interested in staring at landmarks and the glittering expanse of historic river to pay any attention to them.

Too confident, as it happens, and maybe a little too tipsy.

‘Mummy. Those men are kissing.’ It’s a young voice, very young to be out at this hour, and also vaguely cross, as children can be when the world doesn’t fit into the rules they thought they’d learned.

‘Really darling?’ Mummy glances briefly at the couple now sitting sedate, if a little close, and smiles the smile of someone not thrilled at having to explain adult concepts to small children. Which is distinctly unfair, because Mycroft is certain that small children should be in bed by now, so if the little girl has seen anything Mummy didn’t want her to see it’s surely Mummy’s fault. ‘I expect they’ve been to a party.’

‘Yes that’s right.’ Greg honest to goodness _giggles_ at the ridiculousness of that explanation. ‘A tequila party.’

Mycroft just stares out of the window, a faint smile on his face, his fingers still interleaved with Greg’s on his lap, their thighs pressed together. There’s actually rather an impressive view along the riverfront, lights strung between the cast iron lampposts like radiant pearls. Soothing. Anyway they’ll be alone on the top deck from Waterloo, the tube faster for those who don’t have the walk at the other end.

Which means that in sixty seconds or so they can get back to kissing.


	5. Dizzy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the part with the rating. Sticky sex.

The desk in Greg’s room contains a small hill of rubbish – Greg’s method of tidying up is to first heap everything together, cassette boxes and pelican books and receipts and cigarette packets and conkers and bits of string, ready to sort through when and if he can be bothered – and also one of those fan heaters that costs a small fortune to run and cuts out the moment it gets warm. He must have bought it himself, the cardboard box is flattened and folded in the fireplace, ready to set fire to some time he’s feeling especially stupid.

Mycroft drapes his coat over the end of the bed and kicks his shoes off. He has packed pyjamas, since Greg warned him it would be cold, but for now he strips bare, chest flushed with the scalding blast from the heater, back and thighs still shivering. Greg does the same, clicking the heat back off after barely a minute’s use and crawling in beside him.

He’s all goosebumps and Mycroft spends minutes running his hands over them, stroking the shivering skin back to smooth comfort. Greg mouths lazy kisses against Mycroft’s neck in response, still a little lightheaded with alcohol, in less of a hurry than usual but moving slowly downwards. 

He noses beneath the covers where the filtered light through the sheets is pink and warm. The heat traps between their bodies and Mycroft’s hands have strayed now into his hair, tightening briefly as Greg’s tongue teases over a nipple and moves down again, covers closing fully over his head as if he were diving, navigating now by touch. Mycroft’s belly is soft and vulnerable and Greg bites gently, sucks to leave a mark, and feels it contract, instinctive response of muscles Mycroft doesn’t believe he has. 

They jump again as Greg’s cheek bumps into Mycroft’s erection unexpectedly, leaving a damp streak over his cheekbone. Mycroft closes his eyes, better to hold on to the picture that makes, the faint line painted broader and more glistening in his mind, Greg’s eyes wide open, looking up at him as his tongue tastes, wet and leisurely. 

That part is not fantasy at least. Greg is moving achingly slow, tongue and fingers following each other at first, pressing Mycroft’s thighs apart. 

The inside of his mouth is shocking in its animal warmth, fingers feeling their way back as promised, the sensation smoothed by the saliva Greg has coated them with, sucking them into his mouth, laving them with his tongue. They move cautiously, just catching, not trying to find a way in. Then Greg’s head moves, dips, and Mycroft’s ability to keep track of each separate sensation sparks and dies. 

Mycroft’s movements are less controlled than usual, arching up for what he wants; all hot, selfish energy. Greg rides it, lapping, greedy himself, sucking each time he slips away. Half chokes himself trying to swallow, surfacing for air with his eyes bright and cheeks flushed, smearing Mycroft’s come across his lips with the back of his hand. Mycroft stifles a swearword at the sight, lets another escape as Greg snatches something from the flotsam on the desk and dives under again.

Greg isn’t pushing, just drunk enough to know he’s drunk, nervous of being clumsy; but he was getting somewhere, and he’s not quite ready to stop unless Mycroft tells him. He nuzzles into Mycroft’s thigh, breathing him in, orientating himself. It’s a messy business, he can’t tell how much of the gel he’s squeezing out onto his fingers and it’s not like hair gel, it’s runny and scentless and it drips when he uses too much, but it does make everything more smooth. 

Mycroft remembers Greg describing doing this to himself. He’d said it felt weird. Mycroft doesn’t know if that meant difficult to classify or disagreeable. This is the former. Greg isn’t very deep and it’s almost like being stroked, only more so, taking the edge off Mycroft’s ability to think but not quite enough to.. not quite enough.

It’s bloody maddening, actually, Mycroft ducks his head under the covers to say so.

‘Roll over then.’ Greg suggests. 

That is better, it’s more, and Mycroft has leverage now, he can push up as Greg slides down. The covers are half off and it’s freezing but he’s barely aware of that through other sensations, and anyway Greg wants to see what he.. Mycroft’s thoughts stutter again as he realises Greg is watching his fingers disappear inside Mycroft’s body and touching himself at the same time, synchronising, probably trying to imagine what it would feel like if he actually buggered him. 

He could try, Mycroft would let him. Even though he already feels over full, absurdly sensitive where Greg’s fingers have just reached, he’s squirming to get more of the same. 

‘Just there.’ His voice is sleek, dark satisfaction. He barely recognises it. Everything fuses as Greg does as he’s bid, not just once but repeatedly. Not quite perfect each time but enough to keep Mycroft dizzy, almost begging, and when it _is_ it’s sparks and readiness, ripeness. It's overwhelming.

Mycroft comes almost unexpectedly, unaware he’s been heavy and rutting against the sheets some time. 

Greg lets him go, wiping his dominant hand absent mindedly before using it to finish himself off. It doesn’t take long, not while looking at a Mycroft who’s too exhausted to be self conscious, sprawled and panting and damp with sweat. 

They curl up together after, Greg around Mycroft, his leg sliding between Mycroft’s thighs; two dirty slightly sticky little animals seeking warmth against the cold.


End file.
